


"I'm Too Tired"

by beastboy12



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cussing, Gen, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastboy12/pseuds/beastboy12
Summary: A slight re-telling of the barn scene. Five's mind and body are at their breaking point, and something's gotta give.In which the author takes a throw-away line in season 2 and runs with it.
Comments: 120
Kudos: 1338





	1. Fractured

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers (obviously) for season 2, which you need to watch if you haven't already. Didn't like it as much as season 1, but I still loved it and can't wait for the next one.  
> It gets a little dark at the end, but what is my boy Five if not dark, amirite?

### Fractured

Five doesn’t mess up. He’s the best assassin in the entire space-time continuum, and he didn’t earn that title by making mistakes. When he gets a job, he _finishes_ that job.

He’ll encounter the occasional hiccup every now and then - like the lady who’d barged in on him after he’d killed an entire room full of people (is there a word for when you get a rush from doing something that makes you nearly physically sick afterward? For smiling while coating yourself in something you’d be happy never seeing again? If there is, Five doesn’t know it, but maybe that's because there isn’t a word for _him_ ) and he’d had to knock her out. He takes care of those bumps in the road. Things rarely go according to plan, which is why Five only makes plans as a last resort. It’s harder for something to go wrong when you don’t know what _right_ is.

But if Five ever _were_ to make a mistake, it would be when he relaxed. It’d be when he let his guard down, thinking it was over (it’s _never_ over; you’d think he’s learned that by now). It’d be when he let his always tense body uncoil.

It’s when Diego, love scrawled across his open-book face, steps forward and murmurs to Lila quietly. It’s when Five, head still pounding from the crush of falling bricks and a fucking frying pan, lets out a breath of relief because he knows Lila won’t kill Diego because she looks at him the same way Dolores looks at Five. _That_ is when everything is ripped away from Five.

The bullets tear through his siblings’ bodies as if they’re made of paper: little origami people fluttering in a fierce wind called Chance that flung them to a place they never should have been.

The paper the Hargreeves are crafted from still bleeds, though.

Five’s covered in crimson for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, but this blood is infinitely worse because he _knows_ this blood.

He opens his mouth to scream their names (which is cliche, he knows, but he’s not fully in control of himself anymore), and that’s when he finally realizes his paper figure was not spared in the deluge of gunfire. Hot, gushing blood spills over his hands onto the hay below. He can’t stop his fall in any way, but a part of him doesn’t want to. A part of him knows that when he’s on his back, he won’t be able to see his siblings’ ripped, unfolded corpses anymore.

He’s focusing on breathing too much to pay attention to what’s happening around him. The gun goes off again, and someone drops, but it doesn’t matter because he _can’t breathe_.

 _“Maybe your appetite is disproportionate to the size of your ability,”_ his father says and that makes him want to fucking scream until he’s blue in the face. “Who _gave_ me that appetite? Who _fed_ that appetite?” he’d wanted to shriek at the smug man behind the monocle.

But he hadn’t and he can’t now and this isn’t helping him breathe.

_“Seconds, not decades.”_

He’s so tired. Although this is arguably the worst time for it, Five finds himself trying to figure out when he’s slept last. He’s pretty sure he passed out from the shrapnel wound some time last week, and that kind of counts, right?

He can’t possibly use his powers now - there’s no way. He couldn’t even teleport when he’d been with Diego. How can he hope to time travel?

Distantly, he hears footsteps, and he sees the Commission agent standing over him with a gun and he can’t breathe still and his entire family is dead (which is his fault, again) and so he pulls on that energy that makes him so special, that power he despises _so fucking much_ , harder than he’s ever pulled. He strains, yanking at it with everything he has, and he wonders if the snapping he feels is real or imagined.

_Seconds._

The agent lowers his gun and walks backward, out of the barn. The Handler, then Lila, then each and every one of his paper siblings floats back to their feet. And Five is running past it all, eyes trained on the light beyond the door because maybe when he reaches it, he’ll be able to breathe again -

And then Diego is talking to Lila, and Five gasps for air so loudly he sees Luther shoot a concerned look his way, but he _so_ does not have time for useless things like _concern_ right now. He can breathe again, which is a huge plus, and he knows the bullets are no longer in his stomach, but his body aches something awful, and while he wants to take a moment to drink in the sight of his whole, living family, he will focus on nothing except this door.

When the Handler enters, it’s so easy to disarm her, so easy to prevent the deaths of the most (only) important people in the world to him that he almost laughs hysterically. _This_ was all he had to do to keep them safe? He’d messed up in a big way. He deserves the sharp pain raking across his nerves, throbbing with every heartbeat.

The Handler dies, and Lila escapes, and Five would be lying if he said he cared about either event. His siblings are alive, their blood is not dyeing the straw a sticky shade of maroon, and that’s all that matters. What’s a little pain in the face of that?

He tries not to think about how he’s seen them die twice this week; three times altogether.

 _I should make it a drinking game,_ he thinks and is unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of his throat.

Allison throws him a sharp glance - they’re in the basement of the barn as Vanya calms the boy down. Not exactly the right setting for laughter.

Five goes to wave her away - why did his siblings have to _care_ about him so much? - when a thought slips into his mind: _take a drink every time you stare into a sibling’s lifeless eyes._

He doesn’t even try to bottle the guffaw this time, and he knows he’s getting looks from all of them now, but he keeps laughing and laughing until it doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

He can’t remember what was supposed to be so funny anyway.

“Five?” someone says hesitantly, he thinks Klaus, and a light hand rests on his arm.

He twists away, the ache in his body erupting into a full-blown explosion underneath his skin.

(He thought he was supposed to be an acorn, but acorns don’t hurt this much, do they? Is he still trapped under the ice?)

“Five.” This voice is Diego’s - he’d recognize that dagger timbre anywhere. “Are you okay?”

“Of _course_ I’m okay,” Five says, but he realizes too late he’s curled in on himself to stave off the pain. His brain feels detached from his body. It’s almost like floating, except the edges are too sharp and focused for this not to be real.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Diego says.

“I’m a _fantastic_ liar,” Five says. “And _I’m_ not the one who died.”

Diego casts a bemused look at Luther, who shrugs. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m _always_ the one who lives,” Five says, wondering why he feels the need to say all of this. “I’m the only one here who’s never died - isn’t that weird? You’d think statistically I’d die at least once, but nope. Just once, I’d like to be the one whose body is found, instead of the one doing the finding, you know what I mean? Do you even understand how hard it is to save you dimwits?” This isn’t what he intended to say at all, but everything is so bright and he swears he can still feel the tackiness of their blood on his face and it _burns_.

“Five,” and it’s Allison this time, a worried frown attempting to masquerade as a cajoling smile plastered on her face, “why don’t you sit down?”

They think he’s crazy, he realizes with startling clarity. They think he’s lost his mind. _He_ was the only one who’d lived, and yet _he’s_ the crazy one?

Grab the axe from the wall. Sever the lady’s arm as she reaches for the phone. Dance in their blood, bathe in it, drink it.

He laughs until he can’t anymore.


	2. Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap you guys are so nice! Your comments make me deliriously happy - thank you so so much. I don't deserve the praise you guys have heaped on me XD.

### Scream

Diego knows his brother is broken as Five bends over, laughing until tears are streaming down his cheeks, but it takes Five coughing up blood for Diego to really be sure.

Five wipes his mouth, and his eyes widen as he sees the blood on his hand. For some reason Diego can’t pinpoint, that sets the kid off laughing again.

“Who broke Five this time?” Klaus asks the rest of the siblings mockingly, but Diego can hear the genuine concern in the undercurrent of his tone.

Luther glances at Diego and opens his mouth.

“Hey, don’t look at me!” Diego says immediately. Five’s thick laughter still rings in the background, like some demented carnival music. “ _You’re_ the one who kept refusing to do what he said!”

“That wasn’t -” Luther sighs, annoyed. “I was _going_ to say that maybe it has something to do with when he came to the apartment covered in blood, but you know what, maybe it _was_ you. _I_ nearly went crazy from all of your stupid JFK conspiracies, and _I’m_ not an assassin stuck in a child’s body.”

“‘Stupid JFK conspiracies’?” Diego says, incensed. “He was our _president_ , you asshole. Maybe if you -”

“If I hear you mention JFK one more time, I’m going to kill myself,” Klaus says resolutely.

“What do you mean, ‘covered in blood’?” Allison asks, voice sharp.

Luther shoots an almost guilty look at Diego. By now, Five’s laughing fit has tapered off into giggles. “Five showed up at the apartment all bloody today,” Luther confesses.

“You didn’t think to ask him _why_?” Allison says.

Diego tosses his hands into the air. “Oh, wow, great idea, Allison! I can’t _believe_ I didn’t think of that myself! Five is such a reasonable, talkative guy - I can’t imagine him not answering the question!”

Allison flips him the bird.

“He said the blood wasn’t his,” Luther adds, probably trying to be helpful.

“And we all know how honest Five is,” Klaus says, nodding sagely.

“It _wasn’t_ my blood,” Five says suddenly, drawing the Hargreeves’ immediate attention. Fortunately, Vanya’s girlfriend/adopted mom (Diego is still a little fuzzy on the exact details of that relationship) and her son already beat a hasty exit from the barn, so it’s only the family here to witness this impressive break from reality. Five grins lopsidedly, his teeth and lips stained with blood, making Diego’s stomach twist uneasily. Five’s eyes are bright, almost manic. “It’s never _my_ blood on me.”

Not knowing quite how to respond to that, Diego edges forward carefully. He wants to be close enough to Five to catch him if he collapses, and maybe close enough to stop him if he tries anything . . . assassin-y. Not that Diego truly believes he can actually beat Five in a fight.

“Whose blood was it, then?” Vanya asks quietly.

Five’s smile stretches wider as he looks at her. “Does it matter?” he says. “Once it’s out of their veins, it’s not _theirs_ anymore, is it?”

“But it’s not yours,” Vanya says firmly.

“No, no, it’s not mine. Sometimes it’s yours,” Five says as casually as though he’s discussing the weather. “Sometimes it’s all of yours, and I can’t wake up because I’m not dreaming.”

Diego sees Luther and Allison exchange puzzled glances, but Five’s not done.

“And sometimes it’s other people’s, people who don’t matter, people who won’t stop screaming even after they’re dead.” Five clutches at his head. “Like you guys. You wouldn’t stop screaming in the apocalypse. You said you’d stop if I saved you.” Five is looking at them with those too-bright eyes, and Diego can’t help but feel like this is the most honest Five has ever been with them. “And I did save you, but you _lied.”_ He makes a noise at the back of his throat that Diego would’ve called a whimper had it come from anyone else and hunkers down, pulling at his hair. “Why are you all still screaming?” he moans.

“Five,” Diego says, soothing, calm, because it helps keep his own panic at seeing his normally composed, emotionless sibling babble incoherently at bay, “nobody’s screaming. See that? No one here is screaming.” Except Diego is a little, in his head, but Five doesn’t need to know that his brain is shrieking a litany of _What the hell what the hell._

“I’m doing what I can,” Five says, as though Diego never spoke. “I’m doing _everything_ I can to keep you all alive, can you not see that?”

“And you’re doing a great job of it,” Allison says, trying to be placating. She takes a cautious step forward.

Five shrinks further in on himself. “Then why do you keep dying?” he says in a voice that can only be described as small. Haunted eyes lock onto Diego. “Why is your blood still on me?”

Diego doesn’t know how to fix the fragile, shattered Five in front of him, doesn’t know how to handle _anything_ delicate, let alone human beings, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Five lets out another rattling cough, and more blood splatters onto his hand. Diego isn’t sure whether to be grateful or not that Five doesn’t seem to notice.

The blood helps break Luther out of his confused trance, though, because the behemoth leans forward, worry laid out on his expressive face. “Five, are you hurt?” he asks urgently.

“I was hit in the head with a frying pan,” Five says, glaring at Diego for some reason, “I got crushed by falling bricks, I was nearly blown up last week, and I was just shot. Yes, my body’s a little sore.” He’s still revealing way too much information to be completely himself, but at least some of his snark has returned.

Diego’s still processing the “nearly blown up last week” statement (how did _that_ happen? Diego was still in the institution last week, so there weren’t any Commission guys after them yet, right?) when Allison says, her tone shrill, “You were _shot?”_

Five rolls his eyes as though he’s dealing with a horde of preschoolers. “We _all_ were; relax. I fixed it. You’re _welcome_.”

“When were we shot, Five?” Klaus says. Luther shoots him a look that says, “Don’t indulge his hallucinations,” which Klaus ignores.

Five picks at the blood on his fingers, which has started to crust over. “Ten minutes ago. Give or take a few.”

Diego thinks back to when Five, chest heaving, had pressed himself against the barn door like his life depended on it (because maybe it had), eyes frantic as he swung the gun in the Handler’s grip away from the rest of them.

Something lurches in Diego’s gut. The gun had been an SMG - if it had gone off, there would’ve been a spray of (blood) bullets.

Diego looks again at Five, really _looks_ at him, and sees the sunken, shadowed eyes, the hollows in his too-thin face, the pain-addled shivers that occasionally rack his small frame.

And for the first time, Diego thinks Five looks his actual age. 

“I’m too _tired_ ,” Five sighs. Those three words are suffused with so much weariness and pain that Diego suddenly feels the urge to reach out and grab hold of the boy, maybe to ground him, maybe to support him, or maybe for a reason buried too deep for Diego to dig out, but he doesn’t because he knows Five would hate it.

So Diego only looks at the fragmented pieces of his brother and thinks, despair teetering at the edge of his conscience, _I don’t know how to help you._


	3. Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, WOW, thanks for the comments! I get a rush of adrenaline every time I see someone's commented on my story.  
> Secondly, I don't know if anyone cares, but I changed the description of this story slightly, seeing how it has evolved into something I didn't expect lol.  
> Thirdly, having never in my life gone fourteen days without sleeping, I don't know if my portrayal is accurate, but who cares as long as we get Five angst, right? Right.

### Sugar

They’re all staring at Five, like they’re waiting for him to do something. Or maybe he just said something? That would make sense, except for the fact he can’t remember. His thoughts don’t feel like his own - they’re scattered, nonsensical. But they’re his, he _knows_ they’re his, because who else would be thinking about dead siblings and a fountain of blood erupting from his hands, as endless as the blackness of the universe? 

His head is pounding out the same painful, syncopated rhythm his chest is singing, but it doesn’t make sense, because yeah, he was shot, but now he isn’t anymore, so he should be mostly pain-free, but it feels like he’s drowning in the aching burn in his chest, in the desperate beat of his heart, in the sharp throb in his skull.

He wonders if his siblings can see him falling apart in front of their eyes.

He wonders if they see the blood.

 _Idiot,_ a jagged part of him reprimands. _Of course they don’t see the blood, because there is no blood, because they’re not dead._

 _Right,_ he thinks, relieved.

 _At least, not yet,_ the jagged him snickers.

His siblings are still _staring_ , and that annoys him, so he says, “What?” There’s a coppery tang to the word he doesn’t understand.

They glance uneasily at one another, as though he’s not even there, which is _also_ annoying. “Are you back, Five?” Diego says warily.

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Five sneers.

“You went . . . uh, crazy on us, a little,” Luther says.

Klaus nods. “Absolute bonkers. Completely wack-o.”

Considering how disjointed his thoughts are, it’s not too shocking a reveal. “Well, I’m fine now.” They should be doing something right now, he knows, but only hazy images come to mind when he tries to remember. Something about a suitcase? But why would they need that?

Allison frowns at him. “Five, you’re hurt.”

“No, I’m not.” The lie is as automatic as a gunshot. 

Diego snorts. “Try that on someone who believes you. In other words, not us.”

Five bares his teeth at Diego. “I’m _fine_. I just . . . I think I forced my body to use my powers when it couldn’t anymore.” But he’d do it a thousand times over again, because it means his siblings are not bleeding, not dead. Or does he still need to use his powers?

A weight as heavy and solid as gravity settles in his stomach. What if they’re not safe yet? He _thinks_ he’s gone back in time, but what if he hasn’t? What if the Handler walks through the door right now, brandishing that red-lipped smile and a gun?

His breathing wavers. He twists around to face the door, ignoring the pain cleaving his body in two, but there isn’t a door behind him. His panic lasts for only a second - he’s in the lower level of the barn. They moved here because Vanya needed to help someone.

Then he catches sight of his hands and his breath freezes in the middle of his throat, blockading his airway. His hands and fingers are coated in red. In blood. He thought - he’s _sure_ he cleaned himself up after the Commission meeting. He’s sure because he remembers spending a longer time than he could afford in the bathroom, furiously scrubbing at the crimson residue caked underneath his fingernails, lined in the creases of his palms. He remembers trading his stiffening shirt for another, less bloody one. He remembers blood getting in his mouth in the middle of the slaughter and its rusty bite mixing with the sickening sweetness of that swipe of icing. He remembers seeing the looks on Diego and Luther’s faces when he walked into the apartment, drenched in red rain. 

For the last fourteen days, he’s been trying his hardest to get his siblings to see him for who he really is - an adult. When he stumbled into the apartment, Diego and Luther saw who he was, all right. He should’ve been glad they were finally treating him like the adult he was, but the wariness, the fear in their eyes soured any pleasure he might have otherwise received. His siblings weren’t supposed to see him like that - like the assassin he is.

So he’d scrubbed and tore and scraped at that film of blood but it’s _still on his hands._

He looks up and his family is gazing at him in concern . . . and with caution. They know. They know what he did because he couldn’t get all the blood off (and there’s always more, isn’t there?) and now they’re afraid of him.

“I was done with the Commission, I swear,” Five says because he can’t stand the way they’re looking at him. They deserve an explanation, anyway. “As soon as I got back to you, I was done with the Commission kills. I wasn’t murdering anyone under someone else’s orders again.” He knew his siblings wouldn’t approve, for one thing.

For another, he was getting fucking tired of it.

“But then _I_ got you all stuck in a different time, and it wasn’t even like you could _enjoy_ it for long because, guess what, I brought the apocalypse, too!” He breathes around the pain buried in his body. “I tried literally _everything_ before turning to the Handler, but nothing was _working_.” He realizes he’s begun talking louder, but he’s unable to stop himself. He can’t meet any of their eyes for long, so his gaze constantly flits between all of his siblings. “And she offered me a deal, and I could’ve said no, but I _didn’t_ because this was _my_ fault and it was _my_ job to fix it. And it wasn’t like I’d never done it before. I knew I was capable. I knew they wouldn’t stand a chance.” Laughter threatens to bubble up, but he’s worried if he lets it loose he won’t be able to stop, so he smothers it. “They didn’t.”

 _I didn’t want to,_ he wants to scream.

_I didn’t want you to see me like this._

_I didn’t want to kill again._

The kicker? It was for _nothing_. Those deaths meant absolutely nothing at all, because the Handler cheated, and they never even got to use her suitcase.

All that blood - for _nothing_.

The taste of vanilla icing is suddenly so strong on his tongue he almost retches.

A hand grabs his arm. Five immediately, instinctively, wrenches out of the grip, his eyes snapping up to the one who touched him.

“Come back to us, man,” Diego says quietly, his gaze unwavering.

“I already _did_ ,” Five snaps. “Fourteen days ago.” He spreads his arms wide. “Fat lot of good _that_ did.”

“Hey,” Allison chides softly. “We’re alive - twice, actually, because of you.”

“No, Allison,” Five says, his throat tight. “You’re dead three times because of me. All I’ve done is kill you.”

When he entered that portal two weeks ago, which is starting to feel more and more like years instead of days in the past, he did it to save his family.

Reginald Hargreeves didn’t raise his children to save people. The Commission didn’t train its agents to save people.

No wonder he’s so terrible at it.

The splintered laughter that tries to leap out of his chest feels more like a sob.


	4. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for comments :)  
> In other, completely unrelated news, how do people end stories lol. I'm STRUGGLING. All I want to do is write a story about Diego and Klaus being proper big brothers to Five and I'm not even done with this one.  
> Also, I listened to "Fractures" by Illenium on repeat while writing this chapter. It's a gorgeous song.

### Break

Three times. They’ve died three times, according to Five.

And he’s been there for every single one of the massacres.

Diego tries to imagine arriving in a field of ash and flames and discovering his siblings’ bodies, long dead, warmed only by the fire that lights what’s left of the world. He tries to imagine waiting over thirty years to see them again, only to watch them die in a different catastrophe. He tries to imagine his family being mowed down by gunfire right in front of him.

He tries to but not for long because if he imagines it he thinks he’ll go insane.

“So, let me get this straight,” Luther says slowly, not necessarily to anyone in particular. “We died ten minutes ago. Right here. In this barn.”

“ _Technically_ ,” Klaus says. “Because we’re not dead now.” He suddenly pales, looking queasy. “Right?”

“No, I’m definitely alive,” Diego says, turning to Five. “But you could have only saved us through time travel, right? What’s weird to _me_ is that I’m pretty sure you couldn’t even blink during the firefight, let alone _time travel_.” Granted, Diego doesn’t know exactly how Five’s power works, but he at least knows the kid is unable to use his powers after prolonged periods of time.

Come to think of it, Five’s stamina hasn’t lasted very long at all this week. During that fight with the Commission agents at the party, Five almost _immediately_ stopped blinking. Yes, the Swedes were definitely trained professionals, but isn’t Five supposed to be the _best_ trained professional? He could barely (not even - Lila had to step in and save him, hadn’t she?) hold his own against one of the agents.

Diego had _known_ that was weird, _known_ his brother was panting harder than he should have been, but Diego had been so wrapped up in Lila’s betrayal that he’d forgotten to pursue it.

“I _told you_ already,” Five says, sounding miffed. “I think I pushed my body too hard, but it’s fine. It’ll heal.”

“Five,” Allison says, “walk us through what you did today.”

Five squints at her, suspicious. “Why?” He bites the word out like it’s poison.

“Because it sounds to me like you killed multiple people, got shot _at_ , got _shot_ , then time-traveled.” She crosses her arms over her chest, looking very much like the mother she is. Was? “Am I missing anything?”

“He got in a fight with an older version of himself,” Luther cuts in helpfully.

“ _Younger_ ,” Five gripes.

“He fought Lila,” Diego says. When the rest of the siblings walked into the barn, Five already had blood dripping down his face and a bruise emerging on his throat. Diego loves Lila, there’s no question of that, but the instinctive concern that came over Diego when he saw Five like that hadn’t dimmed in the face of that love.

As grumpy and inconsiderate and arrogant as the kid is, he’s Diego’s _brother_.

“Is it just me,” Klaus says, “or does this sound like the longest day ever?”

Diego’s studying Five this whole time. The moments when he contributes to the conversation, he almost looks and sounds like his regular, crotchety self. But there are other moments, like now, when Five’s eyes turn glassy and he seems to be staring at nothing, when his whole body stills. _It’s almost like he’s in a coma standing up,_ Diego thinks, stomach churning. What if Five is broken beyond what any of them can repair? 

Vanya speaks in a low voice, obviously trying not to have Five overhear, but Diego believes she could scream her words and he wouldn’t even flinch right now. “I think we need to see if he’s hurt. I mean, I know he _said_ he’s fine, but, I’m not sure what his definition of ‘fine’ is, to be honest.”

“ _I_ do,” Diego growls. “It’s ‘I’m still breathing, aren’t I?’” Five downplayed his injuries constantly when he was a kid - it seems that still has yet to change, forty-five years later.

Klaus giggles. “So who wants to sign up for the suicide mission of checking our unstable assassin for injuries?”

“I’ll do it,” Diego says instantly, surprising even himself. He’s not totally sure why he volunteered, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that when he looks at Five he sees a little boy who can’t stop stuttering, a boy who feels like he’s dying every day in the years following the loss of two of his brothers, and maybe, distantly, Diego is afraid his other siblings don’t see what he does.

Diego’s still standing directly in front of the time traveler, so he says quietly, “Five? I need to see if you’re hurt.”

Five’s dazed eyes come into focus. “No,” he says curtly.

“Why not?” Diego says, still using a soft voice, still wondering what would happen to him if he lost Five a second time.

Five sighs. “Because, Diego, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Let me _try_ ,” Diego says.

Five looks at him uncertainly. Diego can practically see the cogs spinning and clicking behind his eyes. “Fine,” the kid finally says. “If it’ll get you to leave me alone.” He lifts his shirt up.

Purple bruises decorate the kid’s torso and ribs, a result of the various fights he’s been in the last few days. If it were just the bruises, Diego would’ve felt only relief. But above the hem of Five’s pants is a white bandage seeped in blood. The sight of that cloth stirs something in Diego’s memory, like he’s seen it before. “What’s that from?” Diego says, pointing.

Five shrugs, then winces. “From the explosion last week. It probably opened up sometime today.”

 _Again_ with the “last week” phrase. What was Five doing without the rest of his family?

Allison makes the connection before Diego does. “Wait, Five, is that from when you collapsed on us while we were looking for Vanya? In 2019?” 

She’s right - that’s why it looked so familiar. He was there when Mom stitched it up. But that was months -

“But that was years ago,” Allison says.

Five rolls his eyes, the hem of his shirt still half-raised. “Allison, I’d understand if it were Luther or Diego struggling with the concept of time travel, but not _you_. What was years to you was one week for me.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Luther says, holding up one large hand. “The apocalypse - er, the first one - was _last week_ for you?”

Five shoves his shirt back down, annoyance enhancing his every movement. “ _Yes_ , keep up.”

“Oof,” Klaus chuckles, trying and failing to not sound concerned. “Two apocalypses in two weeks? That can’t have been fun.”

“It was a _blast_ ,” Five says snidely. “Loved every second of it.”

So Five jumped through a blue vortex on the day of their father’s funeral _fourteen days ago_. Had he even had time to process the first end of the world before the second one was thrust upon him?

Come to think of it, had he even had time to process the fact that his siblings were alive?

Had he had time to _breathe_?

“Five,” Diego says, “when do you sleep?”

Five turns that irate, exhausted stare toward him. “What?” he snaps. “Is that supposed to be a riddle?”

“It’s a _question_. When have you slept in the last two weeks?”

Five throws his hands into the air, exasperated. “I don’t know, you think I keep track of my sleep schedule when impending doom is just around the corner?”

“That’s the _problem_ ,” Diego says through gritted teeth. “It’s been impending doom for you since you came back to us.” Diego levels his gaze, levels his tone in an attempt to make Five see the now-glaringly obvious truth. “You need to sleep.”

Five laughs - a sharp, mocking sound. A _tired_ sound. “Sleep is the _last_ thing I need. Who’d take care of you idiots if I weren’t here?”

“But, Five,” Vanya says hesitantly, “we prevented the apocalypse. Again. What’s stopping you from taking a break?”

Five whirls on her, lips pulled back in a sneer. “What’s _stopping_ me? What’s stopping me is _you_.” He looks each one of them in the eyes, something wild in his gaze. “It’s _you guys_. How do I know one of you won’t do something completely _stupid_? How do I know you won’t get yourselves killed, and _w_ _hat if I’m not there to stop it_?”

Diego wonders if Five realizes he’s crying.

Diego’s moving forward before he even recognizes he wants to, and before he can process what an absolutely _terrible_ idea it is, he envelops Five in a hug.

Five’s breathing stutters as his entire body stiffens. “What -” he finally says, breathless but trying to sound angry. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m hugging you, dumbass,” Diego says.

“Then _stop_ ,” Five snarls, but he doesn’t blink away, doesn’t try to escape.

Diego tightens his hold, squeezing Five’s battered body against his own. 

Then, impossibly, _insanely_ , Diego feels two arms hesitantly return the embrace. “Please don’t die,” Five says against Diego’s chest. "I can't - I can't watch you die again."

“We’re not going anywhere, old man,” Diego says, ignoring the tightness in his own throat. “You can rest now.”

Fingers clutch the back of Diego’s shirt. “Promise?” Five says, utterly spent, utterly broken.

“I promise.”

Five sighs and promptly slips to the floor, unconscious.


	5. Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy sorry I haven't updated in so long - I was 100% neglecting this fic for a different one. BUT I'm here now and thank you all so much for your support. This is for you guys, I hope you enjoy.

### Rest

Five comes to in a bed surrounded by people and immediately thinks, _I’m dead._ His second thought is, _It’s about time._ He’s been overdue for a while now.

But then he realizes the people around him are all asleep on various pieces of furniture, and his head is pounding too much for him to be dead.

Allison is delicately draped on a love seat in a corner of the room. Vanya’s body is awkwardly laid out on a kitchen chair, and Luther’s sprawled on a couch he must have dragged into the room. On the floor next to the bed, Klaus is snoring on his back.

Five’s mind feels much sharper than it was earlier that day. With the clarity of thinking comes the momentary rise of panic - they’re not in the right time. They’re still in the 60’s (his fault), and he needs to get them back home. He doesn’t have time to lay in bed doing _nothing_.

Surely at least one of the suitcases among the horde of dead Commission agents is still working. It’s only a matter of testing each one.

He maneuvers himself out of bed, carefully stepping over Klaus’s prone body. He doesn’t know why his siblings felt the need to crowd themselves into the same room like this, but it’s making for a very slow, tedious trek to the doorway.

He shouldn’t care about waking them, but he’s well aware of the fool he made of himself in front of them, and he’s not quite ready to face that music yet. He softly steps into the next room, squinting against the blackness so he doesn’t trip over anything.

The bright light of a lamp clicks on.

Five blinks the spots away from his eyes and then scowls. “How long have you been sitting there, waiting for me to walk in?”

Diego, seated in an armchair with arms folded over his chest like the classic superhero he thinks he is, looks taken aback by the question. “That’s not - I don't - it doesn’t matter. I’m here because I _knew_ you wouldn’t be able to stay in bed. Because you’re an idiot.”

Five rolls his eyes. “I’m fifty-eight, in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Diego holds up a finger. “Correction - you _shouldn’t_ need a babysitter, yet here you are, injured and exhausted and trying to sneak out.”

“I’m not _sneaking_ ,” Five says. “And I’m not exhausted.” He does actually feel somewhat better than he did before passing out.

Diego doesn’t need to know how itchy his eyeballs are, how weighted his limbs feel. He needs to get them back. He can rest later, once everyone is safe.

“Stop lying,” Diego says sharply. “You’re _not_ okay, and we all know that, so the only one you’re lying to is yourself.” He points to the bedroom Five just left. “Do you know why they’re all in there right now? It’s because they’re worried about you. They wanted to show you that you can rest and they’ll still be there when you wake up.”

Something throbs heavily in Five’s chest. “I can’t rest, Diego. We’re not home yet.”

“Oh, yeah?” Diego says, clearly unimpressed. “Can you guarantee that ‘home’ is going to be perfectly in place when we get back? Can you guarantee that we won’t have some other kind of mess to sort through when we get there? What will you do then?”

“I’ll _handle_ it,” Five says, but his argument sounds weak to his own ears.

“Five,” Diego says, suddenly gentle. “Remember what I told you today?”

Five wishes he doesn’t - he wishes he could forget everything that transpired after Lila escaped, but it’s all as clear as day. 

“I told you that you can rest now,” Diego says. “I wasn’t lying.”

The weights dangling from Five’s body suddenly feel a thousand times heavier. “But -”

“No.” Diego’s gaze is firm. “No more thinking, no more lying, no more protecting.”

“What’s left?” Five asks quietly, so very old, so very tired.

Diego stands. “ _You_. And you need sleep.”

The concept of sleep is difficult for Five to wrap his mind around. Sleeping is useless, unproductive. He can’t do anything beneficial while sleeping, so he’s always tried to limit the time he spends asleep. So last week, when he was battling what felt like the entire world in order to save it, sleep had naturally fallen through the cracks.

Diego jerks his head toward the bedroom, and Five finds himself mutely following him to the doorway. His steps are sluggish, slow. “Look,” Diego says, gesturing at the rest of the siblings in all their passed-out glory. “We’re fine. And we’ll keep being fine even while you’re asleep.”

Five gazes at his family and feels something light swell in his rib cage. The sensation isn’t entirely unwelcome. Diego, for once, is right - Five was unconscious for however many hours, but his family is still here. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Five says. “Because I’ve seen what you guys do without me, and frankly, I’m not impressed.”

“Shut up and get your stupid ass in bed,” Diego says.

Five doesn’t totally remember walking to the bed, and he definitely doesn’t remember laying down on it, but suddenly he’s staring up at the ceiling, a cool, cushioned pillow supporting his head and a soft, firm mattress underneath his body.

His limbs suddenly feel weightless, and it’s incredibly hard to keep his eyes open. Have beds always felt this heavenly? Or is this bed in particular the work of an angel? Either way, Five can feel his mind start to drift toward that nothingness that always envelops him when he passes out. But this nothingness is calm, gentle. It soothes his headache, comforts his aching muscles.

“About time,” he hears Diego say, but his voice sounds incredibly far away.

 _Thank you,_ Five wants to say, but the nothingness has already overtaken him.

He sleeps.


End file.
